


The Mess We're In

by Magnetism_bind



Series: Rats in the Shadows [1]
Category: Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Bargaining, Blow Jobs, Cock & Ball Torture, M/M, Oral Sex, Rape, Restraints, Rough Sex, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-18
Updated: 2012-11-18
Packaged: 2017-11-19 00:36:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/567066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magnetism_bind/pseuds/Magnetism_bind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Silva catches them before they make it to Scotland and offers Bond a deal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Mess We're In

When Bond wakes up from the explosion, his ears are ringing. The car is overturned, smoke still drifting away from it. As for M, she's gone. For a moment, his mind is blank as he watches the smoke. Then he stands shakily, and tries to think of where to turn, what to do next.

He’d go home, but he doesn’t have one anymore. He’d go to a hotel, but it won’t have what he needs. So he goes to her flat. 

Bond waits there, as the afternoon fades and night lengthens. He waits until the call comes.

“I have a little proposition for you.” 

Bond lights his cigarette, snapping his lighter closed. “Such as?” His hands are steady. Now anyway. Not that there’s anyone but himself to see. The tobacco calms his nerves more than he cares to admit. 

Silva’s straight forward. “Sleep with me, James.”

Bond exhales silently.

“Come willingly, and I mean that in every sense of the word.” Silva laughs. “And I’ll let her live. I’ll even let her go.”

“How do I know that?”

“It’s the only chance you’ve got. And James, do tell your other superiors all about the details of our bargain, if you like. I want to watch the way you look, when they hear what you’re willing to do for her.”

Bond ignores that. “When?”

“Tomorrow. Ten AM. Hyde Park, Queen Elizabeth Gate.” The phone goes silent.

Bond pours himself a whiskey. He should leave the flat.

He stays, sipping at his drink. M wouldn’t want him to take the deal, but she’d expect it. So he’ll do it, whoring himself out for England. Again. Well, he’s done that before, in more than one way over the past twenty years. Once more for the books.

Bond doesn’t sleep. He tries, but fails, simply lying there in the dark.

Finally he goes for a quick run. London is chilly and gray in the dawn. Bond observes it impassively. Streets and buses, people, all these people. He hates it sometimes, as much as he loves it.

Back at the flat, he showers, and puts on his armor. If he’s going to fuck for England, he might as well look good doing it. 

* * *

And he does, when he stands in Hyde Park, sipping a cup of tea to keep his hands from freezing. It’s an odd hour for a rendezvous, especially one of this nature. 

There is nothing arousing about this situation. Bond speculates what Silva will want from him, and in the end decides, he’ll find out soon enough. What matters is how M will look at him when this is all over. She will make it, if he has to fuck Silva a hundred times.

The two men who collect him lead him to a parked car. Bond’s blindfolded and they drive for some time, deeper into London’s underbelly.

When the blindfold’s removed, he’s in the entry hall of a town house. He’s still in London, but where, he’s unsure.

“Come into the parlor.” 

Bond follows the voice. Silva’s standing at the window. He turns and takes in Bond’s appearance, smiling. “My, don’t you look exquisite.”

“One tries.”

Silva motions to a chair. “Please. Tea?”

 _Are they really going to play this out? Apparently._ “Thank you.” Bond smiles and sits, smoothing his trousers so he doesn’t get creased.

Silva pours and hands him a cup then takes the seat across from him. “So…” He sits back, eyeing Bond from head to toe. Bond sips his tea and remains still.

“The suit is very fine.“

“Tom Ford.“

“Of course.” Silva nods to himself. “I should have known. One gets out of touch with these matters.” He takes a sip of tea. “The cufflinks, a gift from,“

“Yes.” Bond says shortly. 

Silva smiles. “Here.” He holds out his hand and Bond hesitates before setting his tea aside and standing. “Turn for me.”

Bond does.

“Again. Slower.”

This time Bond unbuttons his suit and holds it open, first one side, and then the other. He has no weapons concealed. What would have been the point?

“James,” Silva chides him. “I’m not checking you for weapons. I merely want to admire you.”

“My mistake.” 

“Here.” Again Silva extends his hand and Bond moves closer. The man takes his right wrist, and pulls out a knife. It takes all of Bond’s willpower not to pull away. Silva cuts the cuff links free, leaving the cuff of Bond’s shirt ragged. He does the same with the left cuff, and sits back, studying the links before dropping them into his pocket with a smile.

“There.” 

Silva stands, circling Bond, touching first his shoulder, and then the curve of his hip, fingering the suit's material. 

“You look your best when you’re disheveled.” He leans in behind Bond. “It was so tempting to take you yesterday. There you were, smoky, suit ruined…unconscious. I could have had you then,” his hand strokes along Bond’s lower back, before dipping down to palm his ass. “But sometimes these things are worth the wait, don’t you think?”

“Indubitably.” 

Silva squeezes him lightly, “And now, I think, to the bedroom.” He feels Bond tense before drawing away.

“Upstairs, first door on the left.”

“Do you want me naked?” He might as well ask.

Silva just looks at him for a moment, a moment that is long and lingering. “No, I want to watch you undress.” 

Well, that’s clear enough. Bond nods and goes upstairs. It’s an ordinary bedroom with a large bed. He gazes at it for a moment and then goes to the window. It looks out over a garden with a high wall. Beyond that is another garden. Nothing to tell him where he is. 

The door opens. Silva stands there in the doorway a moment before closing it behind him. 

“Now, James, if you wouldn’t mind.”

He starts slow, removing his jacket and hanging it over a chair. His shoes and trousers follow next. He doesn’t miss the appraising glance Silva gives him once his trousers are off. Still muscled, still tan, still scarred. Still alive for that matter. He slips out of his shirt quickly enough now that he doesn’t have the cuffs to deal with and sets that aside as well. Socks, then at last boxers, until he stands naked before his captor.

Silva remains silent at first. “It is as I thought before. She’s not been kind to you.” He moves in, touching first the bullet scar on Bond’s chest, before roving over his chest. “Still, you have retained some of your appeal.”

“Such as?” Bond dares to ask. 

Silva grins at him widely. “Your charm.” His hand brushes over Bond’s cock. “On the bed, if you please, James.” 

Bond does, lounging on his side almost nonchalantly as he watches Silva intently. Silva removes each article of clothing carefully, setting it aside on the desk in the corner. He’s carrying no concealed weapons, which means the room is either bugged or has cameras. Either way, if Bond acts, no doubt Silva’s men have orders to kill M before he can reach her.

He debates trying anyway for a second or two before Silva approaches the bed.

Silva stands there just gazing down at him, before he moves his hand caressingly over Bond’s chin. It’s tender, almost affectionate. There’s a small part of Bond that wants to lean into it because it’s been a very long time indeed since anyone’s shown him affection.

“Just go with it.” Silva murmurs, hand dropping to Bond’s chest, stroking over his torso. “Close your eyes, James and sit up.”

He doesn’t want to obey, but he does, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. 

The hand strokes lower and lower till it encircles his cock, and then there's a warm, wet mouth taking him in, and Christ, Silva’s good at this. Bond opens his mouth, and shuts it again when the only thing to escape is a weak murmur. Silva’s tongue is light and quick on his cock, sending sharp shivers of lust down his spine. Silva fondles his balls as he takes Bond deeper, sliding his tongue along the underside of his shaft. 

At least he wasn’t having any trouble getting hard. That’s something. 

With his eyes closed, there's nothing to focus on but the heat on his cock, and the darkness surrounding him. Bond takes a deep breath, and knows he's not going to relax any time soon.

Silva squeezes his balls lightly and draws off his cock just as Bond knows he’s close. “There. Open your eyes now.”

Bond does. Silva’s resting his elbows on Bond’s knees, watching him intently. His mouth is wet, shiny with saliva and pre-cum. Bond resists the urge to wipe away that sheen with his thumb. He’s not here to seduce, but it’s hard to flip the switch. He wonders just what will make Silva squirm, what will cause him to fall apart, and what, in the end, would be the easiest way to kill him without a mess. 

“Your turn.” Silva nudges at him with his elbow and moves to sit upon the bed. Bond hesitates again, before sliding to his knees between Silva’s widespread thighs. The man’s cock is decent-sized and half-erect already. This shouldn’t be that difficult. 

Bond lowers his head to lave at the tip first, testingly. His own cock is still hard between his legs as he begins. 

“I have imagined that you’re very good at this.” Silva muses, his fingers trail lightly through Bond’s short hair. “Let’s see how the reality serves.”

It’s a challenge, and Bond considers the best way to meet it, even as he’s relaxing his jaw enough to take Silva all the way in. If he fellates him well enough, Silva will make a crack about his education. If he fails, well, there’s the sting of failure. He wraps his tongue around the man’s cock and pulls off before swallowing him down again. 

If there’s one thing Bond knows how to do, it’s how to tease. 

“James.” Silva murmurs. His grip on Bond’s hair tightens and then he pulls Bond’s head back roughly, so he can slide his cock back in forth across Bond’s lips in a series of motions that make him gag, and start to pull away. 

“On the bed, James.” Silva pulls him up, pushing on his back. Bond looks up at the man with open rancor for a split second, before forcing his expression back in neutrality. 

“Spread your legs.” Silva kneels between them, waiting. Bond does, wishing he were on his stomach so at least he wouldn’t have to watch. It’s weakness at its purest form. He should watch, keep focused on Silva at all times so that he’s aware of the next move and how to deal with it. 

But he wants to look away, and there’s no escaping that once he’s admitted it to himself.

“You thought you’d be on top, didn’t you?” Silva spits on his hand casually, wetting his forefinger before he pushes it straight into Bond. “So confident of that, as always. So certain.”

Bond winces. The burn is acutely painful as Silva stretches him, adding another finger. He had actually assumed Silva would take that position, but it was one thing to accept a matter with one’s head, and another to accept it with his body. In this case, it was rare that his body was actually succumbing before his brain. He views it as a betrayal.

Silva laughs. “So confident of being on top, James. Didn’t it occur to you, I wanted you flat on your belly, like a worm?”

“I thought you might enjoy a cock up your arse.” Bond says easily. “It certainly seems like that.” Silva’s finger-fucking him as though it hardly matters whether Bond’s ready or not. He’s going to get fucked regardless.

“So desperate,” Silva leans in. “So very very desperate. When will you realize, you’re not in control here?”

And he wasn’t, Bond realizes. Silva was right. He hasn’t been in control for some time.

Silva removes his fingers, wiping them lazily on the sheets. “Turn over, James.”

Bond does. He focuses on the headboard. Oak. Finely made, and then there’s a thumb rubbing at his hole, smoothing him open, and then a blunt cockhead pressing into him, and he grips the pillow tightly as Silver enters him. 

“There.” Silva murmurs, but there’s a hint of breathiness to him, and Bond knows he’s tiring, or possibly simply already close to coming. Either way, he'll take it. 

His fingers stroke over Bond’s ass cheeks, digging in sharply with his nails. “Fuck yourself on my cock, James.”

“I’m sure you can manage. It’s already in.” Bond says. Why doesn’t the man just screw him and get it over with?

The nails dig deeper, razor-sharp, “I want you,” Silva leans in, the angle jolting his cock further inside Bond, making him wince. “To fuck yourself,” Silva’s hand tightens, “on my cock. Understood?”

He sits back, almost slipping out of Bond, all but the tip. Bond takes a breath and leans back, arching himself onto the man’s cock slowly. He moves his hips in a perfunctory manner, easing back and forth. It doesn’t matter if it almost starts to feel good, he’s here to do a job, and he’s doing it. That’s all that matters. 

Fingers pinch at his ass, stretching him more open, and Bond grits his teeth as Silva positions himself better for Bond to just keep working his ass. The man has to be close by now. Bond’s hands are tiring, bracing himself upon the sheets. 

“Very good, James. Very good. Did you ever imagine that this is what fucking for England was like?” Silva’s voice breaks into his concentration.

“I imagined it would be quicker.” Bond mutters. He’s starting to sweat. 

Silva laughs and pats his flank like a dog. “James, James.“

Silva comes when Bond’s knees are starting to ache from the strain. The man pushes him forward as he comes, and Bond leans into the pillow gratefully, even as he feels ridiculous. Ass half up in the air, Silva still moving steadily, and then, god, then, _finally_. Silva spasms quick and hot inside him. At last it’s over. 

Bond waits for Silva to pull out, and then, he feels fingers hard against his neck, and the room is dimming. 

* * *

When he wakes he’s flat on his back, spread-eagled on the bed. When he moves slightly, testing the pull of the ropes, something eases further inside him, and he bites back a moan. Silva’s inserted something into him, tied him and left him. Bond seethes as he waits. He’s kept his side of the bargain. 

“I never said when I’d be done with you.” Silva speaks from the corner. He stands, walking back over to the bed. “but, I think 24 hours should suffice. To learn the secrets, and the depths of 007.” He pinches Bond’s thigh and moves to stand at the foot of the bed.

“What do you want?” Bond asks against his better judgment.

“Me? I want you to surrender.” Silva rests his hands on the footboard.

“To you?” Bond chuckles.

Silva smiles. “To me. To time. To fate, if you like. Any of them will do.” His hand encloses Bond’s ankle for a second, touching it gently. ‘”As long you surrender.”

Bond’s cock is still half hard against his thigh. He moves again, and the object in him shifts, making him gasp. He’s as far from surrendering as he’s ever been.

Silva just smiles. “As you like, James.” He takes a thin strip of silk from his pocket, and fastens it efficiently around Bond’s balls, before looping it around his cock as well. Bond’s well and truly trussed now. Silva runs his forefinger up and down the length of his bound cock.

“The first mission where I killed someone,” he muses, “was very bloody. It was not, as they say, a clean kill.” He pinches the tip of Bond’s cock sharply and Bond _jerks_.

“I thought the blood would never wash off.” Silva continues, watching him squirm with almost dispassionate eyes. “But it did and I was new and clean, and ready for another mission. And that’s when I realized. This job was a farce.” He pinches harder and Bond shouts until he's hoarse. His cockhead is throbbing, red and tender when Silva finally leaves it alone. 

He places a hand on Bond’s belly, rubbing the heel of his palm along his skin in a soothing circle. “Tell me of your first kill.”

Bond wants to lie, wants to pretend that none of this is touching him, but he remembers that first kill with perfect clarity. They say you never forget your first time, and it’s true. “I took too long.” He manages. That’s all he can say, even as he tries not to remember the sound of bodies smacking into tile. 

Silva tilts his head to look at him as he scrapes his thumbnail over Bond’s left nipple. “The second time was easier, was it not?”

“Yes.” Bond grates out. He’s exhausted, and on the verge of heady arousal in spite of himself. 

Silva laughs, and abruptly pulls himself up on the bed to straddle Bond’s chest. He moves like a cat, a big cat perhaps. A lion, and Bond tells himself he’s losing it here, if he’s thinking about lions when a man is smiling at him like this. 

But that’s what he thinks. Silva’s grin is wide and dangerous as he undoes his trousers and takes out his cock. He moves closer, kneeling over Bond’s face. “Open up.”

Resentfully, Bond does, and Silva starts fucking his mouth with clear, long strokes. There’s spit dribbling from the corner of Bond’s mouth. He can’t gain any control here. He wonders idly, what Silva would do if he vomited all over his cock. Most likely let him drown in the mess. 

He chokes and tries to relax, anything, but he _can’t_ , and then Silva pulls out of him, and Bond can breathe once more. 

Silva settles between his legs once more. He gives Bond’s cock a teasing flick of the fingers that make Bond hiss, before he removes the object from his ass. It turns out be a large, thick plug, and its absence makes Bond feel momentarily lighter, before Silva slides into him with appalling ease. 

“So loose after the first time.” He muses. “Still full of me, my come.” He grins at Bond. “I should send you home like that.”

“Whatever gets you off.” Bond is almost bored now. But he can’t hide the jolt of hope he gets at the thought of being released, even if it is while plugged full of another man’s come.

“Now, now,” Silva chides. “We still have some time left.” He fucks Bond lazily this time, fingers boring into Bond’s thighs. 

Bond stares at the ceiling. “Whoever designed this room really had no imagination.”

“I quite agree.” Silva says unexpected. “But that’s why I chose it. So that someone with a mind such as yours could fill it easily.” He punctuates that remark with a painful thrust. 

“I’m afraid in that respect you’re going to be disappointed after all. I have very little imagination so to speak.”

“What a pity.” Silva leans close to him, breath ghosting over his cheek. “It’s just as well I have an abundance of it.” He bites down on Bond’s ear as he comes, letting Bond struggle violently underneath him. 

There’s blood on his lips when Silva sits back.

Bond’s chest is heaving. He can feel the blood trickling down his ear. 

Silva slips out of him and casually runs two fingers through the mess seeping out of Bond. He smiles at him, rubbing his fingers over Bond’s lips. Bond spits at him, but Silva only laughs. 

He slides off the bed. “I think I need a shower. You do make one quite dirty, James.” He gives Bond’s leg a friendly pat and leaves the room.

Bond pulls at the ropes holding him futilely. He’s done with this. He wants to be _done_. But there’s M. and he has to lie there, covered with Silva’s filth, waiting for the man to return.

The minutes drag on. Bond counts them at first, but after the first hour passes, he loses track of the time. Moreover, he almost doesn’t care.

* * *

When Silva finally comes back, he’s changed into fresh clothes and his hair is combed, neat and damp. He has a bottle of Scotch with him and two glasses. Setting the glasses on the corner table, he pours until one glass is full, and the other half. He lifts the latter to his lips and drinks. When he’s done, he picks up the second glass and holds it out to Bond.

“I thought you might be thirsty.” 

“How thoughtful.”

Silva holds the glass to his lips. Bond’s prepared this time, and manages to swallow it all down when Silva tilts the glass sharply. He splutters, drops of whiskey flecking across his chin, but the burn, Christ, he almost feels alive as the Scotch hits his throat.

“And now, we are almost finished.” Silva says quietly. “But first, one more thing.” He unties Bond’s wrist, rubbing the marks there with his fingers, sending tingling shivers throughout Bond’s body.

He unties his ankles, and considers Bond’s cock before pulling the ribbon free from Bond’s balls, but leaving it looped around his cock. He raises his eyes to meet Bond’s. “Get on your hands and knees.”

“And if I say no?” Bond licks his lips, ignoring the sour taste, “If I say we’re done here. Now. What then?”

Silva smiles pleasantly. “Then I cut M’s throat and leave her to bleed to death in an alley somewhere. It’d be days before you find her corpse. And by then,” his smile widens. “You know what rats will have done to her by then. Does that answer your question?”

Bond swallows dryly. He gets on his hands and knees. Dully, he notices that his cock, still trussed, is hard between his legs. 

“When you were at school,” Silva says, as though they were continuing a previous conversation. “How often were you punished?”

“Rarely.” Bond tells him, watching him over his shoulder. 

“Another lie.” Silva starts unfastening his belt. “Face the headboard, James.”

Bond obeys. He knows where this is going, so the first swing of the belt isn’t particularly surprising. It still hurts like hell though. 

“How often?”

“Every day.” Bond clenches his teeth against the next blow. 

Silva chuckles. “For what offenses?”

“Oh, everything.” He doesn’t remember those days as clearly as other parts of his past. They blurred together with boredom and bullying. Fighting, mostly, that was it. He’d lost track of how many times he’d been hauled into the headmaster’s study and whipped for fighting. 

The next blow hits the backs of his thighs, making him wince. 

“You must have looked very charming in your school uniform.” Silva sighs. He lets the belt fall again and again until Bond’s knuckles are white as the sheet he’s clutching. 

Mercifully, he stops when the first mangled cry manages to make its way past Bond’s lips.

“Here.” Silva’s hands run along his hips, pulling Bond into a kneeling position on the edge of the bed. Bond can feel the man’s shirt pressed against his back, his erection nestled against Bond’s reddened ass. He stiffens as Silva pushes his trousers down. 

He enters Bond swiftly, one hand wrapped around his throat. It shouldn’t hurt after the previous times, but it does all the same. It’s too quick, too brutal. The hand on his throat tightens, making Bond clench painfully around the man’s cock. This time Silva doesn’t care if he leaves damage behind. 

Silva’s hand leaves his throat to close tightly around Bond’s cock. He pulls at Bond savagely. There are tears in the corner of Bond’s eyes when he comes with a roar of pain. 

Silva kisses him when it’s done. His lips are full and warm, and Bond wonders hazily, how he tastes to the man. Salty, bitter, and dry. It’s the sum of him, as it were. Perhaps that’s what they’ll put on his tombstone. 

Bond’s too weary to pull away when Silva leans into him again, pulling the spoilt ribbon free from Bond’s cock. Silva raises it to his lips almost reverently, and smiles. “Until the next time, James.” 

The door closes behind him, and Bond is alone in the room.

His clothes are returned. He dresses slowly, wincing as the material slides over his abused skin. Exhaustion is written across his bones, and Bond wonders if Silva’s satisfied with the results of this game. Or if tomorrow it will simply begin all over again. 

It’s not over. He knows that much. Not yet. 

* * *

They leave him in Hyde Park, exactly where they picked him up. Bond watches the henchmen stride away before starting to walk in the opposite direction. The wind bites through his coat. He feels raw and used, and fucking ancient. 

He goes to a hotel this time because he needs the anonymity. The blood he washes away now belongs to pristine white towels, and the mess he scrubs from his skin floats down the drain. He lets the water scald him until he burns, and then, only then, can he leave it. 

He checks the pockets of his suit automatically before he calls housekeeping to clean it. The ribbon is folded inside his breast pocket, waiting for him. Bond pulls it out, gazing at it until a wave of nausea overtakes him. He barely makes it to the toilet before he vomits. 

* * *

Mallory is waiting when he reports to MI6 and he gets a sharp reprimand for not coming in sooner, not reporting that M was missing. Bond’s mind goes blank halfway through; he doesn’t care. There’s a ringing in his savaged ear, and he can still feel Silva’s fingers on his throat.

M is back. That’s all that matters. 

* * *

He’s summoned to her office the next day. They haven’t moved this time. There’s no point. Silva knows where they are, he’s clearly waiting for them to try to escape again. 

“Marm.” 

She takes half a moment before she meets his gaze, barely a lapse at all, but Bond catches it, and he knows.

“So this,” M returns her gaze to her computer. “Is what you did to secure my release?”

“If that’s what I think it is, yes.” 

M glances at him. “Do you ever think before you act, 007?”

“Occasionally.” That whole 24 hours is testament to the fact that he can do such a thing. Otherwise he would have strangled Silva while he had the chance and been damned by the consequences. 

“You should get yourself tested. Formality’s sake. That's all for now, 007. Get some rest.” 

That’s all. He stands to go and is at the door when she speaks again.

“I’d say thank you, if it didn’t sound rather crass in the circumstances.”

Bond smiles thinly. “Understood, marm.”

* * *

A copy of the video is emailed to him the next day. Silva had cameras all over the room, which would explain the variety of angles. Bond watches it once all the way through, before hitting delete. 

He already knows it will have been sent to everyone else in the agency. Bond pours himself a drink and pretends it doesn’t matter. 

He burns the ribbon in a hotel ashtray, watching the silk flare before it twists and withers away to ash. It’s not enough, and he drains the whiskey in his glass. It’s not enough.


End file.
